Fairy Stories
by Stariceling
Summary: Set after Death-T. Mokuba has always been taken care of by his big brother. Now it's his turn to do the same.


This really needed to be written, after what happens in Death-T. It had to be hard on Mokuba looking after Seto while he was trapped in his mind putting himself back together. I still wanted them to have a happy ending, though.

* * *

Seto had never bothered with the usual stories and poems that could be found in children's books. Instead, he had his own set of stories, ones that came out only when his little brother was particularly upset or sick and nothing else would suffice. On those days, Seto would sit beside Mokuba's head, and orient himself so that only Mokuba could hear his low voice, and tell him wonderful, impossible stories.

Mokuba loved Seto's stories. He would listen, wide-eyed, quickly forgetting that he had felt hurt or sick or left out. The happy refuge of 'home' that so many of Seto's stories were set in started to seem as mythical as Momotaro's island of Oni, even though Mokuba knew it had existed at one point. He knew that much had to be true, though he didn't remember it quite as well as he could see the pictures Seto's words painted of it.

As for the stories themselves. . . Some of them, like _Mokuba and the Tanuki_, felt as if they must have happened, but Mokuba wasn't sure if that was because he remembered them happening, or because he had heard them so many times. Some of them sounded real, because of the way Seto told them. Mokuba was quite sure he didn't remember the events _of Dad Brings Home a Pineapple_, or _Taking Seto to See Cherry Blossoms_, though Seto described them as if he had been there to see them.

Some of the stories Mokuba was sure had to be fairy stories. When Seto told him about his grandmother, whom he had never met, Mokuba couldn't help imagining her as the hag at the crossroads handing out gifts and punishments, or the dignified and ageless fairy queen presiding over her court. He listened in silent wonder to stories like_ Grandmother Sleeps Through the Earthquake_, or _Grandmother Teaches Seto to Cook Eggs_, or even _Grandmother Knows Santa Claus_. If his brother told him that their grandmother had lived with them in the time before he was born, Mokuba would believe it, but he would also believe that the old woman who knew everything must be some sort of fairy.

It was when they were adopted by Kaiba that the stories abruptly stopped. Mokuba knew, seeing the changes in his brother, not to expect them or ask for them. He knew dozens of Seto's stories by heart by then, but it would be years before he would think of them again.

When Yugi fought his way to the finish of the Death-T course that Seto has laid out for him Mokuba suddenly found reason to think about the brother he'd had years ago, the one who had always looked after him. It wasn't just the fact that Seto had been soundly defeated, in spite of everything he had become. It was that tantalizing promise that someday Seto might pull himself back together, and become the kind older brother Mokuba used to depend on.

For the moment, however, Mokuba wasn't sure he believed that his brother had become anything but catatonic. Seto would only stare blankly at whatever was ahead of him, his eyes focusing on nothing. He made no sign that he recognized anyone, or that he understood what went on around him. For the first few days of this, Mokuba was dead terrified of Seto's numb silence.

After a little time, and a lot of trial and error, Mokuba began to learn how to take care of Seto. He trusted no one else to look after his suddenly helpless brother, and hardly dared to leave him alone. He stopped going to school, between caring for Seto and fighting to keep control of the company Seto had run with apparent ease, Mokuba found he had no time. His brother was more important.

With his sudden lack of awareness, Seto's body became like a limp doll. Mokuba found that he could coax or manipulate Seto into going through simple motions. He could have hired someone to care for Seto, but Mokuba thought it was somehow better if Seto continued to move, even to do small things. Besides that, he was reluctant to trust anyone else with his brother's care.

Seto could be made to walk, but only if Mokuba watched every step, and made sure that there was nothing that could possibly be bumped into or stumbled over. Stairs were absolutely out of the question. Mokuba didn't move him often, only enough to get him to the bathroom, to his bed, or once or twice to board meetings, where Mokuba would spend half an hour arranging Seto in his chair to look bored and imposing, and try to disguise his vacant gaze with sunglasses.

He could feed himself if Mokuba put a spoon in his hand. Giving him a fork and knife to manipulate was too dangerous, and he lacked the aim or control to find his food when given chopsticks. Likewise, he could wash himself if Mokuba provided him with soap and a towel, though Mokuba then needed to keep an eye on his brother to be sure Seto got clean without continuing until he had scrubbed himself raw.

Every day had to be structured. Seto had to be guided to the bathroom at certain intervals, had to be given his meals and taken to his bath at the right times. Mokuba kept their schedule in his mind at all times, no matter what he was doing. He was always counting down to what Seto needed next.

The first few days were terrifying, frantic. Mokuba was afraid sometimes to look at what had happened to his brother, for all that he couldn't leave Seto alone for even an hour. He began to talk to Seto, or perhaps to himself, because Seto's silence scared him.

Seto seemed to listen, even though he made no sign that he saw or recognized his brother. Mokuba thought that when he began to talk, Seto would slowly orient himself toward the sound. Maybe it was wishful thinking, but it was the only hope Mokuba had just then.

So Mokuba talked himself hoarse. He could only hope that Seto heard him, wherever his mind had retreated to. He told Seto what was going on around him, about what was happening in the company, about anything he thought Seto might want to know.

The meandering talk about the world around them gradually evolved into stories. Some of them were more of the same (more like very long complaints than stories), like _Your Board of Directors are All Idiots_.

Eventually Mokuba ran out of news and started outright making up whimsical stories, telling Seto about _The Birds on the Roof_, or _Why the Maid Won't Come in Your Room Anymore_. He knew he'd no idea what the birds were really saying to each other, and he was sure Seto wouldn't have really laughed at all the silly reasons he could think of that didn't have to do with the dim lights and the sickbed smell and Seto's vacant stare.

When Mokuba ran out of ideas, he started repeating the stories he remembered Seto telling him, back before his brother had become hard and intense. He hadn't thought of them in such a long time, but one afternoon he simply found himself telling Seto one, and then another, and when he had run through all the ones he remembered, he started making up his own.

Mokuba had never quite made up his mind that their grandmother was not a fairy queen. He told Seto stories and stories about her, and some of them felt like the same kind of fairy stories Seto used to tell him, the kind that should have been true. He told Seto all about _Grandmother Goes to the Kitsune's Wedding_, and _Grandmother Visits Santa Claus_. He had long ago decided that Santa Claus wasn't real, but he was also under the impression that if their grandmother felt like visiting him it wouldn't have stopped her.

Sometimes Mokuba told Seto stories about himself, the sort of happy-ending stories that used to be real, and now sounded made up. Curled up next to his brother's head, telling Seto about how he used to be calmed and comforted by the stories Seto had once told him. . . even though Mokuba knew it had been true, he couldn't keep the words from sounding like fairy tales. The character of 'Seto' that Mokuba remembered so fondly seemed to have disappeared from the world.

One afternoon they were curled together in the huge, wing-backed chair Seto had once liked to read in. Mokuba didn't think it was good for Seto to lie in bed all of the time, and he could still sit up comfortably if arranged in the right chair. Mokuba selfishly preferred that particular chair. It was the only one with a seat wide enough for him to climb up beside his brother.

Mokuba was making up his story as he went along, telling Seto about two brothers who were always, always together, who of course had to have the same names as the two of them. One day Seto was swept up by an evil Oni who left only his shadow behind (why they wanted him, Mokuba didn't bother with explaining, because it was enough that it happened). So Mokuba went calling all over the world for his brother, with Seto's shadow trailing along behind him.

At that point Mokuba paused, thinking. He wanted there to be a happy ending, but he wasn't sure what the himself-in-the-story should do to get his brother back. He wanted to know more what himself-in-the-real-world could do to get Seto back.

Mokuba's thoughts were interrupted by Seto making a strange noise. He looked up quickly, worried, and found for the first time in months that his brother's eyes were focused on his face.

Seto repeated the noise, managing to articulate it a little better, and Mokuba realized that Seto was saying his name. His voice was rough from disuse.

Mokuba let out an indecipherable noise of his own, somewhere between a cry of joy and a sob, and threw himself at Seto, clinging to his brother as hard as he could.

Seto's arms slowly came up around him, as if he wasn't quite sure how to use them yet. He still had enough control to return Mokuba's hug and rub his back, as he might have years and years ago when soothing his younger brother.

"Not going to finish your story?" he murmured.

"It doesn't matter." Mokuba pressed his face into Seto's shoulder as hard as he could, trying to hold the tears back. "It's just a story," he insisted, though the last word came out as a sob.

"Don't blubber," Seto told him. It wasn't the harsh, disgusted command it might have been a few months ago. The return of that firm, I-know-what's-best-for-you tone made it impossible for Mokuba not to cry a little.

He had never allowed himself to cry while he was caring for Seto, but now it felt safe to let a few tears soak the collar of Seto's shirt. When Seto continued to hold him, making soothing noises that it wasn't that bad and the sooner Mokuba told him what was wrong the sooner he could fix it, Mokuba found the courage to look up again.

"What's wrong?" Seto wanted to know.

In those simple words, Mokuba could hear how his brother had changed. Gone was the heartless tyrant his brother had grown into in the past few years, but so was the quiet, gentle person that Seto had once grown out of being. Mokuba saw strength, and determination, and also that loving, protective look that said his brother would _make_ everything better, no matter what. Mokuba wanted to cry again, because even though Seto had changed again, there was no denying that this was the older brother he knew and loved.

"I missed you," Mokuba whispered, as if his brother had been gone for years upon years, instead of weeks and months. And really, maybe he had been. He might have shouted out the words, but his throat was constricted from trying not to cry.

"I did too," Seto answered.

It felt like the happy ending in a fairy tale, but Mokuba knew this was even better. Getting Seto back was better than any story could have been, because it was real.


End file.
